


It's The Little Things

by victorine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is an insecure little murder bunny, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will Loves Hannibal, also one use of homophobic language but not by either of the mains, domestic murder husbandry, fluffy fluffy fluff fluff, very tiny mention of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7330648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will asks one innocent question and finds himself at the mercy of Hannibal's obsessive tendencies (only in a cute, fluffy way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WrathoftheStag (Mwuahna)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwuahna/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [It's The Little Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502748) by [allzlovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allzlovers/pseuds/allzlovers)



> For my darling WrathoftheStag, on her birthday. Here's to many more years of stupid memes, flailing over Murder Husbands and failing to maintain chill where a certain M.M. is concerned. Happy birthday, sweetie!

They were on the couch, when it started, Will with his head settled on Hannibal's lap, eyes closed, while Hannibal skimmed the day's headlines, relaying any stories that he thought Will might enjoy. A year after their plummet from the cliff, the world was seemingly descending into chaos and no journalist worth their salt was interested in the possible survival of the “murder husbands.” Save Freddie Lounds, but Hannibal had always assumed she would require additional seasoning.

Will tipped his head to the side, opened one eye, and asked, in a sleepy murmur, “What's your favourite colour?”

Hannibal felt his brows draw down in concern. Was Will perhaps running a fever, the effects of which had diminished his IQ far enough to draw such inanity?

He laid a hand on Will’s brow, causing the younger man to snort and squirm out from underneath it, admonishing, “I'm not sick, Hannibal, just curious.”

“My dear, Will, you are well acquainted with the depths of my own curiosity with regards to your person, but I am reasonably certain we have not yet so exhausted each other's complexities as to be reduced to _favourite colours_.” He moved his hand up into Will's hair and began gently stroking the curls.

“We're a couple. On certain documents, we're a _married_ couple. Come on, Hannibal, I know your theories on Dante’s circles of hell, your opinions on why God allows suffering, your preference for the best way to skin a man.” Grinning, he raised himself up slightly to demand a kiss, which Hannibal duly bestowed. “I just thought it might be interesting to learn a few of your more prosaic details, add them to the ‘cannibals I love’ file.”

“Cannibals, plural?” Hannibal raised a brow.

Will settled himself back down and smirked. “Purely an administrative oversight. I assure you, you're the only cannibal in my life.”

“As you are in mine.”

Will rolled his eyes, long past being uncomfortable with the label. “C’mon, answer my dumb question.”

Hannibal considered a paean to the blue of Will’s eyes when he was angered, or the pink of his lips after kissing Hannibal all afternoon. Instead, he chose to pander to Will’s sudden need for mundanity and plucked a colour at random: “Purple.”

“Hmm. Royalty. Figures.”

“I am an aristo-”

“Yes, yes, Count Doctor Hannibal ‘The Cannibal’ Lecter VIII, I know. Even if I wasn't a sodding FBI agent and a respected academic, perfectly capable of doing my own research, you think I would have missed that particular issue of TattleCrime?”

“And yours, Professor Graham?”

“Hmm?”

Hannibal sighed. It seemed Will had decided to be purposefully obtuse today. “Your favourite colour, Will?”

“Oh. Um, maybe red?”

Hannibal took a moment to consider the way Will looked, bathed in that particular colour. “Yes, I can see the appeal,” he said, the lascivious smirk clearly evident in his tone, given that Will’s response was to drag him down into another kiss and, quite soon after, up into their bed.

And that, Hannibal reflected, should have been that: a forgettable exchange in a life filled with many more interesting things. Such as the noises Will made when Hannibal ran his tongue across his scars. Or the fact that Hannibal found it impossible to slip Will’s knots (not that he wanted to, given what Will did to him while he was tied up). Or the light in Will's eyes that told Hannibal someone was going to die at their hands very, very soon.

Instead, the thought of _prosaic details_ festered. Hannibal had never been a man for the prosaic. He lived for the high-flown, the complex, the inspired. Yet he found that he wanted the domestic, everyday side of this life with Will every bit as much as he wanted the sharp-edged, blood-soaked side of it. And then he had remembered that he _had_ known one other person’s favourite colour, because children often knew such things.

_Yellow. Like sunshine, and flowers. Or like our hair, Hannibal._

And suddenly, he couldn't help himself.

“Which season do you prefer?” ( _Fall, I think. Cooler weather, the dogs can play in the leaves, plenty of fishing…_ )

“Would you prefer a vacation at the beach or in the mountains?” ( _Mountains, I guess. Does it matter? Hard to vacation when you're in hidin’, darlin’._ )

“What is your favourite flavour of ice cream?” ( _Why, have you made some, let me at it._ )

“What is your favourite musical instrument?” ( _Not. Harpsichord._ )

“Do you prefer sunrise, or sunset?” ( _I don't… really have a preference, what the hell is going on with you?_ )

This last was accompanied by an expression of pure bafflement from Will as he stood in the doorway of their en suite, mouth still ringed with foam from breaking off brushing his teeth to stare at his partner. Hannibal regarded him from their bed, where he was reclining, already dressed for bed in a pair of royal blue, silk sleep pants. He generally slept topless, now, at Will's request – for a man previously certain of his heterosexuality, Will certainly used every opportunity he could for close contact with Hannibal's chest hair.

“You said that, as a couple, we should know such things about each other. I am attempting to oblige. I wouldn't want you to think I was not interested in _every_ aspect of your being, Will.” Hannibal was mildly annoyed at Will’s obliviousness. Apparently his efforts had gone not only unappreciated but entirely unnoticed. Hannibal imagined that, were he capable of such things, he would be pouting right now.

“You're pouting.” Will rolled his eyes and pointed his toothbrush at Hannibal. “Stay put. I need to rinse. Don't. Move.”

“I am not one of your pack, William.”

There was a muttering from the bathroom that Hannibal suspected contained the words, _would be a damn sight easier if you were_. Hannibal heard the water stop and then Will stomped back into the room, past the bed and over to his set of drawers. He yanked the bottom one open and dug into the back of it, pulling out a slim, gift-wrapped, be-ribboned box, which he flung onto Hannibal's stomach.

“That,” he said, gesturing at it and ignoring Hannibal's protests, “is supposed to be for you, in two days time.”

“Two days…” Hannibal narrowed his eyes.

“Remember when I mentioned that I did my own research? Your birthday wasn't exactly hard to find.”

“Will, I…”

“Yes, you are a giant, insecure baby who ruined his own birthday surprise. Open the box.”

“No, it—”

“Shut up and open it.” Will's expression was so similar to the one of amused murderousness he wore just before a kill that Hannibal decided it was best to comply. Carefully, he slipped off the ribbon and divested the box of its black and gold shell. Inside, nestled in tissue, lay a fine knit, cashmere, v-neck sweater in a deep shade of violet.

“Purple?” Hannibal asked, turning a soft smile to Will.

“A mundane, domestic, boring, ordinary, purple fucking sweater for the love of my fucking life. Both sides of it. Happy birthday, almost.” The murderousness had now been overcome by the amusement.

Hannibal could do nothing but grab the front of Will’s t-shirt, replace the box in his lap with the empath and kiss the grin off his beautiful face.

“I'm sorry,” Hannibal gasped as they finally broke for air, “I'm so sorry I ruined the surprise. It just… it occurred to me that perhaps people who love each other _should_ know such details and—”

Will placed a finger to his lips, stopping the uncharacteristic flow of apologies. “Shh. Don't worry. Your big present is still to come.”

Two days later, Will gifted Hannibal with a beautiful set of Japanese patterned steel knives, and a man who had called them “godless faggots” to test them out on. Hannibal tried to ask the man his favourite colour but, as “please, for the love of Christ, don't kill me,” wasn't deemed an appropriate answer, he cut out the man’s tongue (the knives were, indeed, excellent quality) and painted him Will’s favourite colour instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this photoshoot, because I've always thought Mads looked excessively beautiful in this colour:  
> 


End file.
